


How It All Nearly Unmade You

by WaywardLeviathan



Series: A Candle to Carry Us [ON HIATUS] [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Companions, Cyrodiil, Dunmer Dovahkiin, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Morrowind, Multi, Nonbinary Dovahkiin, Prequel, Skyrim - Freeform, Thieves Guild, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2019-12-07 03:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18229325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardLeviathan/pseuds/WaywardLeviathan
Summary: Even before the return of the dragons, Tamriel had long since been a continent in turmoil. She'd never been kind to the people that called her home, what with war, poverty, and natural disasters killing by the thousands.It was a damned miracle any heroes survived long enough to defend her.Title fromWhy Would I Now?by The Decemberists





	1. Niravas I

Belmredh Evondiil and Evroelle Ra’athim were never in love, but he had the money, she had the prestige, and they didn’t quite dislike each other. It was a perfect match, really, and their fighting hardly ever progressed beyond screaming and that was carefully kept behind the walls of the château they called home. It wouldn’t do to allow such things to be seen by the public. Their first child, Drevfar, quickly proved himself to have an aptitude for magic, competent in all schools of magic, but excelling in Conjuration. He was the perfect son and heir, if easily distracted by his studies, and all was well within the family.

Shortly after his conception, House Hlaalu fell to ruin due to one disaster after another. First, the Oblivion Crisis struck untold horrors upon Tamriel, and the Empire—facing the brunt of Mehrunes Dagon’s rage—was unable to come to the aid of the provinces under their command. All of Morrowind took their subsequent fury out on House Hlaalu that day, for as active supporters of the Empire, they no longer deserved their seat as one of the Great Houses. The Duke of Ebonheart was quickly ousted, and the former Imperial fortress repurposed for House Sadras’ ascension.

A second catastrophe years in the making struck as the Ingenium finally faltered, and Baar Dau crashed to the earth in a rupturing blaze. Ebonheart, fortress it was, became a bastion of safety for those few who managed to flee Vivec—and eventually others displaced after the disparity caused by the Red Year, but who couldn’t afford to leave the country. It wasn’t long until what was left of the crumbling Cantons of Vivec and the old Ebonheart fortress became one and the same through desperate, harried rebuilding to accommodate the sudden swell in population.

By the time the Evondiils’ second child, Niravas, had been born, House Hlaalu had long since been disgraced, stripped of its status as one of the Great Houses of Morrowind and replaced with House Sadras nearly fifty years prior. Both they and their brother were never bothered by their family’s precocious status eversomuch, however, as the former was born just following those shameful years when the name _Hlaalu_ ceased to be relevant, and the latter quite some time after that. Belmredh was more put out by the sudden dip in his coffers, than anything. Being only of Clan Evondiil—so minor in its importance that it was often left from the history books—his standing didn’t change half so much as it seemed. Evroelle had a touch more to adjust to. She was of Clan Ra’athim, she was _royalty_ , but now could barely be counted among nobility.

At this point, all eyes were on Drevfar. The heir to their line was the only hope of restoring their prestige, as some of the research he began delving into was “revolutionary,” he had said.

This left Niravas unwatched by prying eyes, able to go about more or less as they pleased. eventually curiosity and wanderlust lead them to the streets of Ebonheart where they would disappear for days at a time, absence only noted when it stretched on into over a week. During those long days, they would either use money pilfered from their family’s overextended coffers to rent a room in any of the various taverns, or even, a time or two, slept on the rooftops. It wasn’t a kind learning environment, but teach them it did, and they always kept coming back. Often times, they even forgot they had a home to return to, easing into this life they had begun to carve out without the weight of their crumbling family bearing down upon them.

They first spent long hours simply wandering the city, breathing in the sights and sounds. Most times, they found themself simply wandering the Plaza Trademarket, weaving in between stalls and peaking into stores. Rarely did they ever deign to buy anything, but a number of things caught their eye day in and day out.

The first time Niravas turned to thievery, it had had been over such a menial thing. They visited the old Temple on what felt like a whim. Likely, however, it was more than that. More like fate, destiny perhaps. Niravas left the château after visiting with their brother (they had always been fairly close), and their feet carried them directly to the Temple. Up the stairs, they gazed up at the arcing doorway like it meant something. Inside, priests and repenters alike droned on in prayer, hands clasped and eyes squeezed shut before the effigies of the Reclaimed Gods.

Niravas paid them no mind, walking to a room in the back. It was filled with old Tribunal relics, of a time when this city was not called _Ebonheart_ , but _Vivec_. Of a time when Baar Dau was still held aloft and the Red Year had not yet devastated the country. All around was old Tribunal memorabilia. Carvings, trinkets, scrolls, books, and numerous other wall hangings. In the middle of the room, directly in front of the doors was the centerpiece of it all. They stared owlishly at a grand tapestry tacked to the far wall. It was old, worn, and even had burn marks along one edge. Still, the three letters in stark Daedric script were stitched clearly and legibly:

_Ayem, Seht, Vehk_

For the first time, it made Niravas think of what life must have been like before House Hlaalu was disgraced, when the Tribunal still ruled. They wondered for a moment what it was like when the Cantons stood tall over the water and the old Ebonheart Fortress swarmed with soldiers and nobles, rather than refugees. They scowled as it immediately brought thoughts of their mother bemoaning her lost prestige.

“Have you come here to pray, my child?” Came a voice from the entrance to the room.

They shook their head, turning slightly to see a tall figure in Temple robes before their eyes were once more glued to the faded script.

“To remember then,” The priest said, “Of a time before Azura’s retribution.”

Niravas shrugged, “I suppose.”

They didn’t know why they were there.

The priest left the room shortly after, and they were able to tear their eyes away from the centerpiece of this place of relics. They quickly snatched one of the smaller draperies off the wall, not nearly as grand or ornate as the largest one must’ve been before age took its toll. It was, luckily, small enough to roll up and tuck into the satchel at their side.

When they made to exit the temple, the priest gave them a knowing look and Niravas shivered.

They returned straight to the château after that, and went directly to their bedroom. No one really paid them any mind. Sitting on their bed, they rolled out the tapestry, vertical in its composition rather than horizontal like it’s larger version. The Daedric lettering was even clearer on this one, and Niravas ghosted their fingers across the delicate stitching, pretending it meant something to them.

Niravas found themself out in the Plaza, mostly looking for something to occupy their time. A person had caught their eye then, someone who appeared at first glance so inconsequential, that Niravas couldn’t quite place why they stood out. She wore threadbare clothing and her hood obscured most of her features. She walked up to a stall casually, and Niravas only barely noticed her shuffle something into the pockets of her baggy coat. The vendor seemed to notice too, but was only half-sure it had really happened. They rose to shout after her as she strolled away, pace quickening, but Niravas skipped up and pointed to a rather pretty piece of glassware.

“This is beautiful,” They said, catching the vendor’s attention, “Did you make it?”

They glanced down at them as they admired the way the colors in the glass caught the light, and when they looked back into the crowd, the woman was gone. Niravas ended up buying the little bauble for the pittance an artist living in a struggling city was forced to sell at. It was pretty, certainly, but useless. They made their way down to the docks then, thinking perhaps to watch the trade ships come in or the cormorant fishers hunt while they stewed over their encounter with that thief. Leaving the main area of the Plaza, they were suddenly pulled into an alleyways as they passed.

“Don’t think I didn’t see what you did there,” The woman growled, “So what, you think I owe you a favor now?”

Her accent was different, not Balmoran at any rate. She curled oddly around the R’s in a way that was rarely heard in the cities of southwestern Vvardenfell. Close enough now to see her, they were able to make out her sharp features, furious eyes and snarling lips. Her sleek black hair spilled some out of her hood from the exertion of grasping them by their lapels and slamming them against the hard rock of the alleyway.

Niravas shrugged, “If y’want.”

“Why do that, then? Why help me?”

“Dunno, guess I was bored.”

That was the truth of it, at least. Niravas was _always_ bored. There’s only so much to do in one city, especially one so little as Ebonheart. It’s also not like they had any room to judge her. She only stole a small thing from a local artisan, they stole an ancient relic from the fucking Temple.

She scoffed, dropping them and stepping away, “You rich tits always are.”

They just laughed. Was their status so obvious? Well, they supposed their clothes looked a bit pricey—specifically the coat. It had been a touch expensive, but however much their parents claimed they were dirt poor, they still never noticed when a handful of drakes missing every now and again. Besides, it kept them nice and warm on those nights they decided to sleep out under the stars.

“What’s your name, anyhow?”

“...Tanami,” She said after a long moment’s hesitation.

“Niravas.”

They encountered Tanami a number of times in the Plaza after that. Eventually, they even went to go seek her out. Her sour attitude never really wavered, but the fondness of companionship grew with each meeting. She eventually allowed them to aid her in some endeavors, and they both quickly grew in skill. They both learned things on those streets, through trial and error and tips from the occasional mercenary that blew through town, such as how to walk in absolute silence, pick locks, and rifle around in someone’s pockets without them noticing. As their skills grew by leaps and bounds, Niravas found themself wandering back home less and less.

About a year after that first meeting, Tanami took them to meet her older sister, Jenassa. She was a gruff looking woman, dressed in cured leathers with a dagger strapped to each hip, and bright yellow Ashlander tattoos on her face and shoulders. She regarded Niravas with a disapproving stare, and it took some talking down from Tanami to get her to tolerate their presence. Later that night after Jenassa had retired, Tanami took the time to explain that her sister was a mercenary, often gone for weeks at a time. She knew most of the money went to her, so she could stay in the city with a full belly and a place to sleep. Nonetheless, it just wasn’t enough to support two people, despite her best efforts.

She turned to thieving on those nights when she couldn’t afford a room at one of the several local taverns and Jenassa wasn’t there to work something out, selling her spoils to the few local fences around the city. That conversation was the first time Tanami had ever blatantly thanked Niravas. A single self-taught thief on the streets would never last long even with meager financial support. _Two_ self-taught thieves, however? A helping hand and another pair of eyes keeping watch might very well be the only reason she hadn’t been arrested on the spot any number of times.

That was also the first real heartfelt conversation they had ever had, and their relationship was all the better for it. In fact, Niravas would go so far as to say that what they had never felt this way towards anybody but Tanami. She was attractive enough, for certain, with strong with long, dark hair and a wicked grin, but that wasn’t what they really noticed about her. It was the way she laughed when they did something stupid, when she clutched them close on cold nights, or how she stuck out her tongue in concentration when picking a particularly difficult lock: the little things.

Sometime later when Jenassa had returned from a contract, she broke Niravas’ nose when she saw them and Tanami half naked in the back room she had rented.

Niravas returned to the château after that. They sat in their brother’s study, a place separate from his bedroom and was an undeniable mess. The servants weren’t allowed in there to clean up, as it had been forbidden after one touched something they maybe shouldn’t have and ended up bright green for a week. Drevfar didn’t think much of it, only thankful the mishap ended with such a harmless consequence.

“You certainly look happy for someone with a broken nose,” Drevfar noted, holding Niravas’ face up by the chin, turning them this way and that.

“Do I?”

“Was this the work of a protective father?” He said in a knowing tone.

“Sister.”

“Even worse.”

He then very suddenly grasped at their nose and _yanked_. They’re not too proud to admit that the noise they made was less than dignified as he smoothed a restoration spell into their skin. It seeped down into the bone, knitting cartilage and flesh together and quelling the throbbing ache.

“I’m hoping this doesn’t ruin anything with her.”

“This is serious enough to warrant you risking another injury, then?”

“Of course,” They answered, biting their tongue when they realized how immediate their response had been.

He stopped to regard him for a moment, before simply saying, “Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, that was a happy chapter, right?
> 
> Alright, so I have the majority of this written/figured out already, so all the tags I think I'll need are put up. A few chapters will be for Niravas, a few for Vilkas, then a final one will be the timeline.
> 
> Since a lot of this takes decades (or in Niravas' case, over a century) before the main plot, there's a _lot_ of OC's, so if that's not your cup of tea maybe stick to the main story.
> 
> (But let's be real most of the NPC's are so bland these characterizations basically make them my OC's anyways).


	2. Niravas II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niravas begins to settle into their new life with Tanami as a thief.

Niravas and Tanami had remained together, terrorizing Ebonheart for several years. They were both overconfident in their abilities, honed for near a decade. In fact, they were so overconfident that when a trio of figures dressed in identical leathers approached them and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse, they did. The Thieves Guild had been a mess since the Red Year, what good could they do them? If only they would’ve said yes, they would’ve been set up for life. But instead they refused.

Some weeks later, Niravas returned to the château to check in. Unsurprisingly, no one really noticed their absence—barring Drevfar, of course, who had long since been well aware of Niravas’ less than savory exploits. It was about noon, and they took advantage of the chance to take a nap in their soft bed. Usually, since becoming so close to her, they slept in the tavern room with Tanami. Jenassa was there that night, unfortunately, and they didn’t like their odds of surviving a night in the same room as their lover’s protective older sister.

They were woken sometime late in the day by a sudden feeling of dread. The begrudgingly untangled themself from the plush covers of their bed, exited their room, and padded down the silent hallways. They didn’t bother dressing entirely despite the slight chill of the night, too tired to care. Trousers hung low on their hips, and they left their shirt on the floor where it had been tossed before they went to sleep.

The shadows seemed more defined and severe as they continued, the ever-present horror only increasing. It finally came to a head when they passed the door to Drevfar’s study and heard the oddest of noises. It was like whispering, echoing clearly but the words were indistinguishable. After a moment’s trepidation, Niravas dared turning the doorknob.

The scene before them was chaos. All the furniture had been pushed to the walls, out of the way. Books and papers were strewn everywhere, glass from shattered beakers was scattered across the floor, and an inkwell dripped down the leg of a table. The room hummed and crackled with magical energy. A wind had somehow picked up, causing Niravas’ hair and clothes to sway with the air currents.

And Drevfar was in the middle of it all, crouched before a massive, glowing circle. It looked to be carved into the hardwood of the floor, deep violet light pooling out of the splintered panels. Odd symbols that looked vaguely Daedric were etched in strange, geometric patterns. Drevfar himself sat with a broad, bloodied knife having fallen out of his hands. He got out the last syllables of a chanting spell just as the door opened.

“I’ve done it, Nira,” He announced giddily, twisting around to look at them, “My research is complete.”

Before they could respond, however, the circle suddenly flashed, making Niravas see spots even though they averted their gaze. Drevfar himself was clasping at his eyes, as though painfully struck blind.

“No, no no no,” He muttered, stepping back from the circle, “This isn’t right.”

A figure had found itself now standing in the center of the circle, and both Niravas and their brother were paralyzed with fear, visibly shaking. Most of Her features were obscured by a long, dark cloak that flowed out and became one with the shadows in the corners of the room. Only Her hands and lower half of Her face were visible. She reached out and gently held Drevfar’s face with Her long, elegant fingers. He screamed, and the edge of Her lips quirked up some.

He fell to the floor like a ragdoll when she let go. They rushed over to him, cradling his lifeless, prone form. Niravas gasped in pure terror, finally able to see the entirety of their brother’s face. Her hands left angry red burns that cut deeply into his flesh. In the center of each palm-print was one they recognized: the letter _Neht_. His expression grotesque, that of pure, unbridled terror. His skin was so cold that Niravas’ hot tears sizzled when they fell upon his face.

The shadows shifted, swooping through the room in one fluid arc. They groaned in agony when a sudden burning pain pressed into the bare skin of their right shoulder. They didn’t dare turn, but could scarcely make out the figure from their peripheries. Frigid, visible breath puffed against their ear as She spoke.

“Ah, Champion, so we meet at last,” She remarked, a smile evident in Her voice. “The Dragon dreads what He must have you do, but I? _I anticipate it_.”

They way Her laughter echoed off the walls as she departed was deafening. Her hand left their shoulder, leaving behind a tingling numbness. The circle ceased to glow, the false breeze settled, and the shadows faded back. The feeling of foreboding was now authentic, and not the aura of some dreadful creature from the bowels of Oblivion itself. Drevfar was still cradled in their arms, undeniably dead with an expression of horror quite literally frozen into his features.

Their parents arrived shortly after, awoken not from the chanting, the screams, or the very presence of the being that wrought all this, but from the sound of Niravas wailing into their brother’s chest. When they were found, they still clutched him close as if he were still alive. They couldn’t quite explain the horrors that had occurred in this room, but just a cursory glance around the room told them that Drevfar had been dabbling in magics of the most dangerous sort.

Belmredh rushed outside, shouting to any who would listen, “My son is hurt! Call for aid, hurry!”

Evroelle was inconsolable, crying out, “ _Yi julekil_! _Yi julekil!_ ” And had to be forcefully ripped away from her son when help finally did arrive.

Guards seized the room and all it’s contents, and very nearly Drevfar’s corpse as well. It wasn’t until the mages and healers they brought along insisted there was no dangerous residual magic on him that they were allowed to cremate him, as proper.

The warm touch of a restoration spell delicately worked its way into the burn, soothing the furious itch that had begun to set in.

“Severe frostbite, the healer had said, just like your brother’s.” 

A cursory glance in a mirror later that night revealed that they were exactly the same, palmprint, script, and all. When they finally left the house, the moon had already begun making its gradual ascent to the east. Two of the responding guards carried him to the Temple on a litter, pristine white sheet covering him. Niravas stood at the back with their parents, trudging on behind them.

Drevfar’s funeral pyre had been the grandest they had ever seen.

After all had been said and done, Niravas found themself in Tanami’s rented room, curled up in her arms. Jenassa, who was to leave on another contract a few days later, surprisingly left them be. Tear tracks stained their face as they lay half asleep. Her hand felt almost painfully heavy where it rested on the bandage on their shoulder, the sensitive, frostbitten burns itching once more. They didn’t tell her to move.

Days of mourning drifted on into weeks, into months, until finally an entire year had passed and the grief now only left a dull ache that felt like a distant dream. They still weren’t quite back to their usual self, hardly ever visited the château anymore, despite the fact that their parents were now painfully aware of their absence with now only one child. The one year anniversary of Drevfar’s death had been the last time they ever saw their parents, collectively keening in sorrow at the place where his urn had been placed beneath the earth in their ancestral tombs in Necrom.

The day following, Tanami had kissed them sweetly, and brought up something they had previously planned before Niravas had suddenly been thrown back into their melancholy. There was one particular shop in the Plaza they had always had their eyes on. It was a lucratively wealthy place, specializing in delicate works using precious metals and stones. Taking advantage of the city’s legacy, it was most well known for jewelry made of ebony, a strong metal that by no means should be able to be fashioned into such intricate pieces.

“You ready for this?” Niravas asked with a wide grin, forgetting about everything that had happened for just this moment.

She laughed, “Always, _daelha_.”

They walked into the store, dressed sharply so as to not look out of place. They were clothes from the deepest reserves of Niravas’ personal wardrobe that had mostly become filled with comparably ratty clothes. They had spent a good few hours meticulously sewing a plethora of pockets into every fold, even cutting into skirts and sleeves. Niravas walked up to the clerk, a little Bosmer who handled sales while their employer worked on commissions in the back. They made up some story about wanting to find the perfect gift for their mother, and went all out describing some of the combinations that they thought she would love.

Tanami, meanwhile, knelt down as if to get a better look at the display items, discreetly undoing the look with deft hands. She left after carefully filling her pockets to avoid the light jingling of masterfully crafted chains. When she was done, she spent some time looking at other things in the shop before leaving, to drive home the façade that she was merely browsing. Niravas thanked the clerk shortly after, saying they now had much to think about in terms of the make of the gift, but would return within a week. The little Bosmer merely smiled sweetly, none the wiser of what had happened just under their nose.

They met up again in an alley not far from the shop giggling like children as they sorted out their spoils. The majority of it was ebony inlaid with rubies or moonstone, but a few gold and silver pieces were also in the mix. It was all guaranteed to fetch a pretty price, even if they would likely have to find multiple fences to move so much expensive goods at one time. Niravas kissed Tanami soundly. This life with her was all they ever could’ve wanted.

It didn’t last.

Back in their street clothes, they were on their way to a small establishment on the outskirts of the Plaza that advertised as a pawn shop, and was bound to pay them handsomely for the chance to ship their spoils all across the Empire. Niravas whirled around as Tanami suddenly fell to the ground. Her hood was forced off, and her long black hair spilled out as she let out a cry of pain. An arrow, the head slick with blood, had torn its way through her left thigh. Niravas held her close as they scanned the entrance to the alley they had just exited, careful not to jar her wound.

Half a dozen figures spilled into the street, a few snatching the parsels and satchels holding the jewels. When Niravas leapt up, they were quickly met with an arrow pointed directly at their face, so close it nearly touched their nose. They recognized the Heartlander drawing back the string, as they had approached them months previous.

“Oh, it’s you lot again,” They said sardonically.

“...Dick…” Tanami wheezed out.

“Oh, now that’s not very nice. In fact, I think we were quite agreeable when we invited you to join us. _You’re_ the one that turned us down, remember?”

“The fuck’s the matter with you?” Niravas snapped, “That was over a year ago!”

“Well, we were just gonna leave you both be,” They shrugged, “But a haul like this? Couldn’t let _you_ of all people keep it all.”

And with that they turned and disappeared into the shadow of the alley. Niravas was struck mute by the whole situation, unable to form words as panic settled in. Their only cognizant thought was to get her safe. They nearly went blind with terror when they saw her begin to fiddle with the arrow, attempting to break it so she could easily remove it. Niravas nearly screeched as they grasped at her hands. She seemed to understand that it would only make things worse despite their incomprehensible mutterings.

They ended up carrying her to the Temple, the apothecary being on the other side of the Plaza. The denizens gasped in horror as the pair of blood-soaked Dunmer entered.

“Please,” Niravas had gasped out, “Please help.”

The priests immediately did what they could, several of them having some meager medical training. They begged for them not to call the guards, and—thankfully—they complied. They were taken to the back room, where Tanami was laid down on a pedestal that had been quickly covered with cloth. Niravas had initially been allowed to be in the room with her, but was escorted out when their nerves began to cause Tanami to panic as the initial shock wore off. When they were finally allowed back in (days later it seemed, though it had only been an hour or two), she lay deathly still upon the pedestal.

She was wearing a Temple robe, her old clothes ruined, dark hair pooled about her and her thigh bandaged tightly. The healthy violet tinges of her face were now a pale grey-blue. They would have thought her dead if it weren’t for the way her eyes blearily flickered open and focused on them.

“Nira?” She rasped, “Niravas is that you?”

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but couldn’t muster the strength. Niravas just kneeled beside her and squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“Please, _yi daelkhun_ , _yi muhr_.” They began to sob, “Don’t die on me. Not you, too.”

She whispered something to them then, something they couldn’t hear because of their pounding heart and couldn’t see because of the tears clouding their vision. All they knew was that she gave them the most bittersweet of smiles as her eyes went out of focus and she went still. They would’ve kneeled before her corpse for an infinity if a hand hadn’t settled on their shaking shoulder, briefly causing the old scar to throb. They turned to see the priest from that day years ago, the one that turned a blind eye.

“I’m sorry,” They murmured, “The arrow pierced a femoral artery. She lost too much blood.”

Niravas didn’t say anything, just turned back to face their lover’s blank eyes. They reached out a hand to close them.

“Should I send for anyone?” The priests words sounded distant in their grief.

“Black Shalk Cornerclub,” They said at last, “Send for someone called Jenassa.”

She arrived about an hour later. There was a lot of screaming. The only reason it didn’t escalate beyond that was the priests threatening to throw the both of them out if they resorted to violence. Neither wanted to be away from Tanami.

The next day, for the second time in such a short period, someone Niravas loved more dearly than Nirn itself burned atop a pyre.

Jenassa had stared unblinking as her sister’s corpse burned away on the pyre. There was a hardness to her expression as she refused to let herself cry. They both sat vigil until the embers burned low, and the priests had collected the ashes. All that was left of Tanami was dust and some remaining, charred shards of bone. Jenassa only looked away from the place where her sister burned to take the urn from that first priest, the one whose name Niravas never bothered to learn. It was made of bone-white clay, and engraved in a flowing Daedric script, was her name.

Niravas held out their hands, “Please, let me do this.”

Jenassa wordlessly handed the urn over, her fingers locking over it but eventually relinquishing their grasp. Niravas held it close to their lips as they whispered, feeling tingling warmth as they worked their spell. When they pulled away, the clay was smooth to the touch and the lid no longer rattled as they handed it back. She held it close to her chest in knowing that now, after all these years, she could finally keep her sister with her always without fear of her breaking.

The next morning, Niravas slung their pack over their shoulder and made their way down to Six Fishes, where they caught Jenassa. She exited with exhausted, haunted eyes. She was decked in armor, also packed and ready to leave. Niravas vaguely remembered Tanami mentioning that she was to leave on a contract around this time.

“I’m leaving,” They said instead of any greeting. “Come with or don’t, but I figured I’d at least extend the invitation.”

She crossed her arms and looked at them with suspicion, “Where to?”

“Who gives a shit? This city has taken _everything_ from me.”

It really had. Drevfar and Tanami had been everything in the world they’d ever loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	3. Niravas III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took a week off! I do most of my writing on the weekends, and I went on a couple of weekend trips. Just got back from one about an hour ago, actually! Anyways, here's somewhat of a resolution to all the bullshit from last chapter

Niravas and Jenassa set out soon after dawn, both with dark circles under their eyes. Neither of them had slept longer than an hour or two at a time since the funeral nearly a week prior. They were just setting out from Seyda Neen where they had stayed after doing a quick job. It was a relatively simple one: to clear out a small kwama egg mine where a flock of cliff racers had made their nest. Niravas was surprised to find that they weren’t half bad, using the speed and cunning they honed as a thief to take down the vicious little things.

That was just the first job of many. Jenassa helped them master the daggers strapped to their hips that they had originally only gotten only for emergencies. They traveled like that for longer than Niravas bothered to keep track of, just taking whatever dangerous jobs came their way. It’s not like they really cared if any of it killed them or not, and Jenassa seemed to revel in the peril as much as they. Eventually, they had made their way all throughout Morrowind, visiting everywhere at least twice. Everywhere except for Ebonheart, that is, somewhere Niravas had vowed to never go again.

It wasn’t a vow made all at once. In fact, they fully planned to go back at some point, if only to pay respects to Drevfar in the Necrom. But in that deciding moment when their travels had nearly brought them home, and an acute sense of nausea set in when they saw the crumpled cantons on the horizon. Just a glance at Jenassa showed she felt much the same, her ears lowered as she looked to be fighting down a sudden surge of anxiety.

There was only one other place where that expression ever graced her features.

They had been running out of supplies, both injured and desperate to get to the nearest town. Unfortunately, that was Tel Mora, a place which Jenassa vehemently argued against visiting. She only relented Niravas pointed out that the wound on her side was beginning to fester, and they couldn’t keep walking on a leg that at best was badly sprained. Limping along, the Telvanni city within sight now, an Ahemmusa scout made themself known. Niravas thought little of it, knowing that particular Ashlander tribe to be a peaceful one. Jenassa, however, looked like at any moment she might meet her end. Yet still she held her ground as the scout approached.

He seemed to recognize her, trying to speak in what must have been Old Dunmeris, as it was a dialect so far removed from what was spoken in Ebonheart Niravas had only read when they were young and their parents still bothered making them study. When he realized she was only barely parsing out what was being said, he sighed forlornly and spoke in the common tongue that had spread throughout Tamriel along with the Empire.

“Come along, then.”

Eventually, Jenassa looked to where her hand was pressed firmly onto her side and nodded. The scout led them away from Tel Mora, and soon they came across their camp, but despite the safety and medical supplies it brought, Jenassa still looked to be in a state of panic.

“How do you know that scout?” Niravas inquired when the healer went to the other end of the tent to gather herbs and bandages.

She didn’t reply.

“Well?” They pressed.

“I knew him when we were young.” She took a breath before biting out, “I’m… from here, actually.”

“Oh,” A long moment of silence, “Why’d you ever leave here for the city?”

“Why’d _you_ ever leave your cozy chȃteau for the city?” She snapped back.

Fair enough.

By the time the healer had exited the tent (likely to inform the Ashkhan or whoever else cared the state of their impromptu guests), both Jenassa’s side and Niravas’ foot were packed with heavy poultices and bandages. The scout that had led them here entered in her stead, sitting next to Jenassa on the palette. There was obviously a history here, and Niravas felt awkward being forced in the middle of it. “Where is Tanami?” The scout eventually said in that Old Dunmeris accent that Jenassa and Tanami always spoke in that Niravas could previously never identify.

Just hearing her name brought back waves of pain. The scout looked between them with a look of bitter disappointment. Wordlessly, Jenassa reached into her pack and produced that small clay urn, just as pristine as the day they’d received it, even after years of travel. It shone in a particular way when a stream of light caught it from the tent’s door-flap shifted in the wind.

Scarcely an hour later, Niravas found themself (along with Jenassa and a handful of the Ahemmusa Tribe), standing at the peak of a hill that overlooked the surrounding countryside. Their wounds ached something terrible and the wind buffeted their hair over their eyes, but still they remained silent as the clan’s Wise Woman managed to wrest the urn from Jenassa’s trembling hands. She looked at it with a perplexed expression for a moment before tapping one long nail upon it. There was a sound like glass cracking as the urn returned to it’s rough, unstained clay form and the lid wobbled with just a touch.

The wise woman then raised her voice in a mournful hymn, and all the rest joined her. The lyrics were in such an ancient dialect of Dunmeris that Niravas could only parse out single words and short phrases. The song reached its crescendo as the wise woman removed the hand that had been holding the urn closed. The wind carried the ashes out into the countryside, and Niravas felt a piece of themself floating off with it.

Unlike the funeral, this time she collapsed into their arms and wept. Niravas gritted their teeth, both due to the sudden pressure on their injured foot and to keep them from falling into a similar state. If they started crying as well, there would be no end to it. They would have to be the strong one for once. By the time the sun began to set, all the others had departed and they were the only two left on the hill. They spoke long into the night, grief and alcohol from a flask Niravas produced from their coat pocket prying out secrets that would never again see the light of day.

“Why didn’t you sing?” Niravas asked.

“Hm?”

“You just hummed along.”

“I’ve forgotten the words. Most of the language, really. This is the first time I’ve heard it in… Ancestors, it’s been so long.”

“How long?”

“I’ve lost track.”

She then sighed in resignation, downing the rest of the flask’s contents before continuing.

“I was exiled,” She admitted, “Some Gulakhan couldn’t keep his fucking hands to himself, and didn’t listen when I pulled a dagger on him. Of course, no one would take a mere hunter’s word over the honor of Ashkhan kin. And Tanami refused to stay behind, to leave me.”

“That sounds like her,” Niravas said, voice warbling slightly from held back tears.

“Doesn’t it? I had left, and after resting from a full day’s travel, I awoke to find her curled up next to me as if she had never left my side. Gods, she was so young.”

“It wasn’t your fault. If anyone’s, it was mine. I should’ve seen the archer, or at the very least got her help faster, but...” 

“I don’t blame you, not anymore. I did, of course, but seeing you. You really loved her, didn’t you?

“With all I had.”

“I want to leave this place,” Jenassa suddenly said after a long moment’s silence.

“Sure, where to next? Mournhold’s always got work.”

“No, I meant I want to leave Morrowind.”

“I hear Cyrodiil’s nice this time of year.”

“Sounds lovely.”

The next morning, they left the camp early in the morning without a word. They had only been allowed to stay in the first place due to their injuries, but now that they had been tended, it was time to move on.

Cyrodiil really was lovely, though. There were real birds to fill the sky with song, rather than oversized insects and cliff racers. Deer pranced throughout the lush forests and green grasslands while wolves loped after them. Ayleid ruins could almost always be seen in the distance, stark white against the vibrance of nature. For awhile, Niravas fell in love with the softness of the landscape they had previously only heard stories about. The issues didn’t come around until they began passing through the towns.

Now, Niravas was used to being looked down upon. No one really took too kindly to Hlaalus anymore, it being especially bad in Redoran territory. Jenassa didn’t have a much better time, being an Ashlander. But the people in the city, specifically the humans, didn’t care about all that. No, all they saw was a couple of "dirty dark elves" who had the _audacity_ to come into their country looking for work.

Despite all that, work was work, and the people of this province had recovered from the Oblivion crisis much better than Morrowind ever had even the slightest hope to. Ancestors, Red Mountain really fucked them over, didn’t it? It was a marvel to be in a place where the city spires still towered high and pristine. They mostly spent their time in the Niben Bay, for though it was closer to the Morrowind border, that also meant the Nibeneans were much more welcoming than their Colovian or Heartlander cousins.

The first time Jenassa and Niravas worked separately during this time was due to a trip to the Imperial City in search of more coin. Niravas’ ears perked up at once upon entering Green Emperor Way when some self-important Altmer scoffed at them as they passed. Niravas took the chance to quickly cut part of the underside of the purse at their side and easily nicking a fat bag of coins. Niravas smiled upon seeing it was full to bursting with gold and even a few gems, but wrinkled their nose with slight disgust and laughter as they realized it stank of perfume.

Later that night, after Jenassa had gone to sleep in their rented room, Niravas remained in the bar drinking. After time enough for them to get properly sloshed, a slight woman appeared rather suddenly behind them. Niravas stifled the reflex to start and looked at her with nonchalance, meeting her gaze as golden as the necklace chain tucked into her shirt.

“I saw that back there, you know. Expert work, I have to say.”

“Cut the shit, and say what you mean,” Niravas snapped, not appreciating being snuck up on, especially while drunk.

She looked shocked for a moment, but quickly began laughing earnestly, eyes crinkling in mirth, “Alright, then, no pleasantries. Got it. I’m offering you a job!”

The woman seemed extremely chipper, something that pissed them off to no end in their stupor. It was like she didn’t have a care in the world, barging into a crowded tavern to harass some stranger, and talk about things that could get them both arrested.

“Doing what, exactly? Thieving?”

“Pretty much. You seem pretty experienced, I gotta say. Anyways, we’re always looking for people with that kinda skill.”

“‘We’?” They echoed, “Who d’you work for?”

“Who do you think? The Thieves Guild, of course.”

“Alright listen, I may be absolutely plastered right now, but that sounds like a shit idea.”

“Well, it’ll help pay for that little habit of yours,” She said gesturing to the tankard in their hands that had been downed again half a dozen times over by now.

“I don’t deal with the Guild, alright? Not after last time. Now, would you kindly fuck off?”

“You’re from Morrowind, right? I hear it in your accent, so you probably dealt with the Morrowind Guild. We’re the _Cyrodiil_ Guild.”

“You lot shoot random thieves if they say they don’t want to join you?”

“No, I’ll let you go on your way and mourn some absolute fucking talent. I mean, who taught you?”

“A woman your _sister guild_ ,” They hissed out, “Fucking _shot_.”

Gods, they really had no filter while drunk, but this didn’t seem to bother the woman any.

“Damn, that’s rough, buddy. But that wasn't us, so if you change your mind, just go to the Garden of Dareloth at midnight, ‘kay?”

“And where in the fuck—”

But she had turned on a heel and disappeared into the crowd before they could get another word in. They quickly downed the remains of their tankard, left a few septims on the table, and retreated to the rooms Jenassa had already gone to. Niravas wasn’t surprised to see her collapsed upon the bed dead to the world. She was still in her clothes, armor and shoes strewn around her.

Not a week later, Niravas found themself wandering the Waterfront in the dead of night following some vague directions garnered from a barkeep. The only people present were a few drunk tavern goers and beggars. Leaning against the stone fencing encasing the lawn of where they were _sure_ the directions were supposed to lead them, they mentally kicked themself for daring to hope something might be here after all. Their ears twitched as they caught the sound of soft laughter from above.

They looked up to see a slight woman cloaked in dark leathers reclining on the roof of the house to which the lawn (or rather, _garden_ ) they were currently standing in belonged.

“So you made it, after all!” She called down to them.

Niravas found themself quickly and easily taking upon the mantle of a thief once more. It felt like shrugging off a coat stuffed with lead, and they realized in that moment that mercenary work not only didn’t suit them, but it was damned near suffocating.

The woman they met at the garden introduced herself as Methredhel, and was generally the only other member of the Guild they spoke to in those early days. They had, at one point, asked after the Redguard woman with the golden eyes, but Methredhel merely gave them a confused look.

“I’m afraid I don’t know who you mean.”

“The woman who pointed me to you?”

“No, I’d just heard around that a master thief’d come along and was looking for work.

They opened their mouth to speak, but promptly shut it again. In all honesty, they weren’t sure they _wanted_ to know.

“Well, let’s get to work then. Don’t tell me you brought me here just to sit around?”

“I think I’m going to like you, Niravas,” She laughed.

Their work began with simple trials, such as racing other initiates across the city for a particular piece of loot. It was evident their years of experience had honed their abilities to the point of easily outstripping the younger apprentices, and it wasn’t long until they reached the point where they were sent along to complete a variety of difficult heists. The feeling of having fellow thieves around was both a warm and hollow feeling, and Niravas forcefully swallowed down any thoughts of _her_ it brought up. No need for their failings to ruin something new, something hopeful.

Jenassa, of course, was furious when she found out. Not necessarily because it happened, but because she wasn’t told. Those years on the road had turned her into Niravas’ confidant, and yet she’d not heard a word about the matter until they’d disappear for hours at a time and show back up with pockets full of loot they never would’ve been able to acquire alone in that amount of time. Eventually, however, she conceded, and Niravas wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that now they smiled easily and much less frequently spent entire evenings deep in their cups.

It wasn’t for another several years before they saw that Redguard woman with the gold eyes again. They had already become complacent in this new life, settling in with the Imperial City Underground like they were born for it. They still never really socialized much—many of the young, up-and-coming thieves a painful mirror—but they were now on a first name basis with a good portion of the Guild’s major contacts. The only person they really remained in regular contact with Jenassa, with whom they basically lived in that tavern.

They didn’t recognize her at first (or, rather, _couldn’t_ ). It wasn’t hard to tell they were being followed no matter how skilled the other person was. The pervasive feeling of being watched came to a head as they stopped in an alley out of the way of prying eyes and a figure stepped out of the darkness. Despite the light grey of their cloak that completely hid their face and figure, it was as if they were one with the shadows.

Then the illusion snapped away as she turned down her hood, revealing those bright, eagle eyes and a drooping amulet depicting the sigil of Auri-El hanging free over her chest.

“You can’t stay here, you know,” She said as if informing them of the weather.

Niravas sneered, “And why in Oblivion not?”

She shrugged, “They just need you somewhere else, or something. I dunno, champion-ing is weird like that.”

“‘ _Champion-ing_ ’?”

“Yep, and you’ll figure out what that means someday, too.

They opened their mouth to retort, but were promptly cut off.

“—Anyways, have fun with that!”

And it was as if she was never there in the first place, gone the instant they blinked.


	4. Niravas IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took another week off bc writing is Hard, (not to mention I had some major writer's block for a few of these bits).

“You’re stealing _what_?!”

“Keep your voice down!” Niravas hissed, “These walls are thinner than they look.”

"Are you fucking mad? Nira, what on Nirn could possibly make you think this is a good idea?"

They shrugged, unable to think of a better answer that could possibly placate her worry, "If I don't go, those idiots out there're gonna get themselves killed. 'Sides, not like it's _my_ plan."

"Do you think you'll fair any better? Cut the shit; pretending to be selfless doesn't suit you. You're doing this because you _want_ to."

"And so what if I am?"

"Because I don't need you going off again and getting yourself killed just like you–"

She cut herself off, but the implication was clear: _...Just like you got Tanami killed._

"Just like _what_?" They snapped.

When it took more than a couple seconds for her to formula a response, they stormed out of the room, ignoring the despair in her eyes, the wound that never quite healed. If they turned to look they were sure it would swallow them whole.

They soon found themselves in the garden of dareloth, peonies sprouting up around them morning glories twisting and winding along the guildhouse walls. It looked purposefully abandoned, superficial damage and plants left to grow wild and untrimmed on the outside. They deftly made their way up to the second-story window, inserting a small key into one corner before silently slipping inside. Methredhel and a pair of Breton siblings named Paule and Luc were gathered around a table, waiting.

“Oh good, you’re here. Ready to head out?”

Niravas knew only the vaguest details of the Thieves Guild’s history. They had heard legends of the Grey Fox, of course, even briefly skimmed the Guildhall’s copy of _Purloined Shadows_. They were even well aware of the fact that their supposed founder had disappeared at the turning of the era, leading to many believing that the weakened barrier between Mundus and Oblivion allowed Nocturnal Herself to step foot on Nirn and strike them down before stealing back her Cowl.

The story struck Niravas with a certain sort of fear; after all, they could sympathize.

There was another story in circulation that, thanks to time and unbelievability, had all but faded into legend. Before the dawning of the Fourth Era, it was said that the Fox had managed to pocket an _Elder Scroll_ of all things. Niravas didn’t quite believe it, but Methredhel claimed to have been a young footpad when it occurred.

“I swear it! Somebody had told me themselves they were gonna break into the Tower. Then the next day, there was a Scroll missing! People only stopped talking about it because a giant glowing dragon punched Mehrunes Dagon in the face right in the middle of the City.”

This current heist was meant to mirror that. It was meant as a test of sorts, an assurance that the Guild still boasted it’s former power despite their missing guildmaster. Niravas didn’t really care about any of that, just that the prize they sought was worth putting their life on the line in such a manner. Who else could say they held in their hands the shards of the shattered Amulet of Kings? Not even the Grey Fox, that was for sure.

Infiltrating the outer walls was of little issue, as crowds still flocked to see the Great Dragon, and there were parts of the tower where the average citizen was allowed. Beyond that, patrol routes had been checked and rechecked extensively over the course of several months, along with at least half a dozen independent sources. With all they had managed to scope out in mind, the four of them were able to easily make their way through the palace. If they ever happened upon anyone unexpected, Paule, a master of illusion, and Luc, a master of alteration, picked up any slack and allowed them to easily slip past.

As they crept along in complete silence—even the siblings’ spellcasting done with just hand motions alone—they finally reached their impossible destination. By the gods, it was right there and Niravas could hardly believe it. The door was deceptively unassuming, but every map, every source said _it was right here_. They boosted Methredhel up where she managed to just barely fit herself into one of the air tunnels carved into the very foundation of the tower to keep the place evenly heated. The Ayleids ingenuity as master builders truly knew no bounds…

...And that of the Empire’s left much to be desired, Niravas couldn’t help but to think when Methredhel cooly opened the doors that only locked from one side.

Niravas had to quite literally bite their tongue to keep from gasping aloud. Inside lay relics of a bygone age, an age in which the Empire still reigned absolute. They felt like a child once more, walking into that temple then walking out with a secret in their pack that still hung in the back of their wardrobe in Ebonheart. Lining the walls were a collection of portraits, and as one followed down the line one could clearly see the changes both subtle and drastic.

It began with a slight but grizzled Breton and ended with an Imperial with a smile so soft and warm that it made Niravas feel at ease. Below each painting lay a glass case containing a crown, each as similar yet different as the last in a mirror of their former wearers. And yet still, on the scant uncovered space on the wall hung more portraits still.

They recognized very few of these others, namely the erstwhile Champions of Cyrodiil, both of which gave them pause but for entirely different reasons. One was an Orsimer that almost certainly had been the one to fish Uriel Septim VII out of Oblivion itself (an Orsimer with a seat on the Elder Council _and_ an official portrait was almost as rare as a Dunmer or Beastfolk).

The other face was one that Niravas could barely process due to its familiarity. It was that Redguard woman, but her eyes—

“ _Niravas!_ ” Methredhel hissed.

They then shifted their view to the center in which yet another glass-covered pedestal stood, covering securely into place.

Niravas reached into their sleeves for their picks, and began to work the lock. Before they could even tap the first tumblr, however, a pulsing, burning sensation shot its way up their arm. They swore, motioning for Luc to work his expertise upon the spelled lock. Their ears twitched as they heard the soft sound of distant, echoing footfall. They turned to Methredhel, who was in the process of getting the attention of all three of them. Yet it was obvious her efforts were in vain; there was nowhere to hide.

Until the footfall stopped just shy of the door, twin silhouettes blocking light from the corridor.

“Oh come on,” Whined a voice from dangerously close by, “I’ll be two seconds! Just cover my watch for a mo’.”

“Can’t it wait ‘till after your shift? It’s only another hour.”

“If I wait any longer I’m liken to piss myself, and piss-rust is Oblivion to get out of armor.”

“That’s disgusting! Why do you _know_ tha—” They were cut off by a sudden sharp intake of breath from their fellow. “What is it?”

“Lock’s twisted wrong.”

“How d’you mean?”

“I mean the door’s unlocked!”

Paule, in a panic, furiously mouthed incantations without a sound, hands waving in the air and fingers contorting. Niravas held their breath as the spell fell over the four of them and the knob to the door twisted with just about as much trepidation as they currently felt. Two armored heads peeked in, but their roving eyes didn’t settle on their fear-paralyzed forms.

“Nine, you scared the shit out of me!” “No, wait! Think this through, would you? That door was still unlocked.”

“Maybe the last person in here forgot to lock back up,” They shrugged.

“Maybe except the fact that _nobody goes in here_. Use your fucking brain, man!”

“Shit.”

“I’ll go get the captain.”

The next moments were a blur as an older but still spritely woman, her armor more ornate than that of her fellow, stormed into the room. Her eyes had flashed with magicka, and Paule cried out as her spell was forcibly broken. Were it not for Luc, she would have been the first to fall as a flurry of steel came rushing towards them. He slumped to the ground as a broadsword was yanked from where it burrowed itself into his side.

Niravas had managed to boost Methredhel back into the tunnel, which she quickly squirmed through to the other side. They met her gaze for just a moment, her eyes urging them to continue fighting their way forward. Paule was at their side, covered in her brother’s blood and tugging at their arm because “Niravas, we need to go _now_ ,” because the captain had set her eyes on them by this point. The last they saw of Methredhel was her hurling herself upon the captain, effectively knocking her to the ground and halting her advance.

They knew that if they looked back, if they met her eyes, they’d end up just like her: casting themself away in a valiant but ultimately futile attempt, never to return.

It was just them and Paule now, forcing their way through hallways becoming increasingly crowded with soldiers and guards. They just barely managed to round a corner fast enough, to duck into a small alcove without being seen, and Paule secured their escape by downing a magicka potion strapped to her belt. Even that, however, would not be enough. If they didn’t get out soon they would inevitably found. Or, in Niravas’ case, possibly quite literally die. While Paule had managed to avoid serious injury, Niravas clutched their side where they hadn’t been able to dodge a blow quite in time.

The search had swept past them, leaving this particular part of the tower empty for the time being while other areas were turned upside down. Niravas rose from where they had been crouched, unsheathing a small dagger kept in their sleeve and unsealing one of the windows, hoping against hope that the commotion had remained indoors. They fastened a line of rope, more than long enough to reach the bottom, to the sill. Let it never be said that Niravas ever went into a job unprepared.

After that everything went blank. They remember giving Paule the rope and feeling very satisfied with themself for thinking to bring it. They remember beginning to shimmy down it. They remember, however vaguely, their feet touching the bottom and looking about frantically in the hopes they hadn’t been seen. Gods above, they even remembered a _scream_ , but… nothing much after that. They supposed the blood loss must’ve caught up with them as they collapsed onto the grass.

The first thing Niravas noticed when they awoke was a searing, throbbing pain in their side, and a pair of glowing gold eyes belonging to a balding old monk. Evidently he had been tending to them, judging from the way he pushed their hair back so he could put a cold cloth on their forehead. They had been settled down upon what seemed to be little more than a bed roll in a room they didn’t recognize, brazier burning strong in the corner bringing it to a stifling heat. They shifted uncomfortably upon realizing they were soaked through with sweat, and attempted to rise from where they had been laying down despite how it twisted and pulled at their injuries.

“It’s good to see you’re awake,” He greeted, "I almost worried I'd been too late. Gods know what we'd do without a champion."

They felt a bitter, "I almost worried I'd been too late. Gods know what we'd do without a champion."

They felt a sour taste rise in the back of their mouth at that. _Champion_. This was the third time they'd heard it directed at them taste rise in the back of their mouth at that. _Champion_. This was the third time they'd heard it directed at them.

“Who the fuck’re you?” Niravas slurred, barely able to form proper words as they drifted back into consciousness, “Where’s Paule?”

“Hush, never mind all that, now,” Soothed the old monk, “You’ve been injured. Badly, I might add. Not to mention the infection, Nine above! The fever still hasn’t quite broken yet."

“Where’s Paule?” They repeated, “Who are you people? Where’ve you taken me?”

Rather than replying, the old monk simply sighed and placed a gentle hand upon their shoulder, urging them to lie back down. They complied if only because they didn’t have the strength to argue. They began to drift off as the cloth was replaced, its coolness a soothing contrast against heat of the apparent fever burning its way through them.

They were suddenly awake, however, as suddenly they were so cold they could scarcely breathe. They jolted into a sitting position, noting that the building around them had gone from cozy to dilapidated in an instant, snow flurrying in through areas where entire portions of wall had caved in. The brazier to their right had been toppled over, ashes spilling over the dust-ridden floor. They noticed with dawning disgust that the area around them was littered with fallen soldiers, cold preserving enough that rot had scarcely the chance to set in.

Ancestors, could they have dreamt it? Couldn’t have. After all, who else could have dressed their wounds?

A hand pressed to their side revealed it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it should have, the bandages shifting slightly under their touch. With further inspection, they noticed that this wasn’t the tunic they had been wearing at all as it was whole and unstained. It _was_ , however, drenched in sweat. Niravas shivered as they rose, the damp fabric sticking and beginning to freeze to their skin.

Their belongings were stacked neatly in the corner when they made to collect them. Their clothing wasn’t much—previous tunic and upper portion of their armor crusted with dried, frozen blood, making them almost entirely unwearable—but by some minor miracle they noticed the bedroll left behind was using a furred cloak as one of its blankets.

It was a miserable, freezing trudge down the path without the crumbling walls of the monastery to shield them from the wind, but at least among people in the city of Bruma, Niravas could send word to Jenassa.

When she arrived nearly a week later, she screamed herself hoarse, shaking as her fists clenched at her sides. But when she let her hands fall limp, the fury melted away from her and Niravas found themself smothered in a bone-crushing embrace. They clutched her tight as their injuries would allow, one arm still making their side twinge painfully if they overexerted it.

“Jen,” They said, breathless, “My side. You’re gonna reopen it.”

Voice warbling, she replied, “Good!” Yet relaxed her grip.

“I’m—” They sniffled as their eyes stung, “I’m so _sorry_.”

“I thought you’d died. I don’t think I could’ve lived with myself if… if _those_ were my last words to you.”

Niravas smiled despite the tears, “Well, I ain’t such a saint either. ‘Sides, this whole plan was fucking stupid,” They admitted, but added, “Even if it _did_ almost work.”

They stayed another week in Bruma for Niravas to heal, just long enough that extensive travel wouldn’t reopen the wound. It didn’t heal near as well nor as quickly as they would’ve liked, but they were close enough to the border that the primarily Nordic population didn’t have a single mage. They’d all been run out when the Mages Guild disbanded. Niravas would’ve just done it themself, but their magic was good for much other than starting fires. Instead, Jenassa did what she could with what little she knew.

After a time, however, they knew that staying in Cyrodiil much longer wouldn’t be in their best interests. Rumors, of course, spread like a pandemic and soon the botched heist became the talk of the town. It was a rare thing to encounter someone who hadn't heard of the four thieves—nor that of those four, two escaped. As the two strangers in town, Dunmer in a city of Nords, every eye in Bruma was on them.

“Two? Where’s—”

Niravas quickly blurted out, “Dunno.”

She nodded in understanding.

But as for where else to go, well, they didn’t have a lot of options. War raged across Tamriel, the Dominion covertly starting fires only to oh so conveniently put them back out again. Anywhere preferable to hide out just happened to be on the other damned side of the continent. They'd argued for what felt like every second of Niravas ' recovery before a decision was finally made despite the faxt that it was the only option available to them. See, it was really logic that drove them to Skyrim, not (as many would later come to claim) destiny.

So on they went, cursing the law and snow all the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that's the end of Nirvas' backstory. Their life with the Skyrim Guild'll probs be its own thing that I've barely started writing.  
> Next off is Vilkas! Yep, I made his backstory depressing, too.


	5. Vilkas I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaa I meant to post this over the weekend, but i was visiting family for the past week and a half and it completely slipped my mind

When it came to her, Vilkas only recalled the most basic of facts, second-hand memories told throughout his childhood by those who had actually known her. Her name was Sonjba, a warrior of great renown who was unmatched in her skill. Preferring to dual-wield a pair of blades, she was an absolute terror on the battlefield, the pride of Skyrim’s Imperial forces, a soldier unmatched in a fight, and a brilliant strategist. Second to all that, she was his mother. Her actions killed his father, and very nearly him and Farkas both. Throughout his childhood, she had always been held as an ideal, and one that both he and Farkas should strive to reach.

They grew up wanting to be just like her, regarded for their skill, honor, and love for their homeland.

Their father, Jergen, had loved her dearly, meeting when her regiment was stationed in Whiterun. She had entered the mead hall rather suddenly one day, he was told, demanding one of the illustrious Companions accept her challenge, to prove their mettle. Jergen was out in the training yard, quite literally swept off his feet and thrown into the dirt before he could even remember agreeing to fight her. It was a tale often recounted around Jorrvaskr when the two were spoken of.

Several years later, Sonjba found herself—dejectedly—pregnant. Jergen had been overjoyed, but understood the limitations this now put on his lover. She was not ready for a child, let alone two. After a little less than a year after being forced to take a temporary leave from the army, she gleefully returned to her career. Whiterun, being the caring little community it was, aided Jergen in raising Vilkas and Farkas during those long periods where Sonjba found herself out. She was often called away for weeks at a time, the military life inconstant and unpredictable. This was especially so when the Thalmor began their invasion.

About two years into the Great War, she was finally called away for good when Vilkas and Farkas were still young, sent to the front where the Imperial City was under siege. Reinforcements from Skyrim were called in out of desperation, as only the supply route through Bruma and into Skyrim remained open. The battle was a hard one, Imperial forces stretched thin as they were, but still Sonjba marched on into the fray.

From that day onward, as she and her regiment marched fearlessly onto the weary, bloody battlefield as the sun rose behind them, she was known as _Dawn-Strider_. 

Her skill and conviction won that first battle, as she cut down foe after foe in her singular mission to take out the leading General. She succeeded, striking a fatal blow despite being dealt one of her own. As the Thalmor were driven back in a temporary defeat, Sonjba was being carried in a litter to the medical tent where she later succumbed to her wounds. She may have fallen, but history remembered her as the woman who almost prevented the Empire from becoming the Dominion’s puppet. Almost.

The Thalmor returned with a conviction, and two years later the Emperor, Titus Mede II, made the decision to abandon the capital, to make a final stand elsewhere. The people who had been unable to evacuate suffered immeasurably at the hands of the infamously cruel Dominion, and the Imperial Palace rendered to an ashen husk. The Emperor eventually returned to his city, many months and casualties later to retake it from Thalmor hands, but conceded to all the Dominion’s demands.

The Empire became a shadow of itself in the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. The Dawn-Strider’s sacrifice—like so many others—had been in vain, only delaying the inevitable.

To this day, this is all Vilkas or his brother can really know about her. Farkas occasionally speaks of remembering the barest of things, like her eyes or the feeling of her arms around him. Vilkas will sometimes reply that he remembers her laugh, but that memory faded years ago. He only remembers remembering it. The only thing they both recalled with great clarity was the funeral. Solemn and silent, they didn’t even have the chance to bury anything, as her shallow grave had with the rest of the fallen soldiers at Lake Rumare, far to the south.

Jergen went mad from grief when the news finally reached him. On the days when he wasn’t catatonic in his mourning, his fury got the better of him. Most nights, he would snarl like a beast before stalking out of the house. When he would return, his clothes would be tattered and covered in blood, but rarely did he ever have even a scratch on him. Both brothers now found themselves afraid of their once kind, doting father. He never laid a hand on them, but raised voices and eyes flashing feral gold are more than enough to startle a pair of children who haven’t even seen their thirteenth summer.

Their fear only ever abated in those times when the sun was highest in the sky or on moonless nights, and all Jergen could voice were desperate apologies. Farkas always forgave him, seeing the truth of his sincerity. Vilkas, on the other hand, never did. On some logical level, he could see a true desire to repent in his father when he was not caught up in whatever madness possessed him on those nights, but a part of him simply couldn’t forgive. Mother may be gone, but they were still here.

In those days, they mostly found themselves alone in town during the long evenings when Jergen would be out either drinking or doing Nine knows what out in the wilds. That was when they became quite close with the Jarl and his family. Jarl Maerlaf felt for their plight, his own brother having been slain not long ago on a contract for the Companions—or at least that’s what they assumed. They never did find his body, and much like Sonjba, caskets lying empty in the Hall of the Dead. The Jarl had three sons, the youngest, Hrongar, about the same age as the twins. He became fast friends with Farkas, while Vilkas found himself closer to Balgruuf, the middle child. The eldest, Jesig, held himself apart from them.

For the first time since the ever-growing war took their mother, they were happy.

Maerlaf treated them like his own during those couple of years, always making sure they had what they needed when Jergen was away. That was when Vilkas decided that he’d sooner call this man ‘father’ than their own flesh and blood. Hrongar was always eager to show off what he had learned in training, as well as his growing collection of weapons. Balgruuf, meanwhile, was always willing to lend Vilkas a book or two, or to aid him in accruing his knowledge and vocabulary. Sometimes, on the coldest of nights, the four of them would sit in Dragonsreach next to a roaring fire, and Balgruuf would tell them stories, some off the top of his head and some read aloud. The ones Vilkas remembered most distinctly were of the old days of Alduin, when the dragons still reigned supreme.

That all ended when Jergen—who had by that point been gone for three or more days—suddenly returned and roused the twins from their sleep. He demanded they pack their bags, as it was imperative that they leave _immediately_. Vilkas still dreams of seeing the desperation and fear present in his eyes that night. Farkas says he’s still haunted by the almost furious hurry in his voice.

They were forced out with heavy coats and tough boots thrown on over their night clothes. They didn’t even have socks on, the snow caked outside their boots freezing their feet. It was the dead of winter, and they pulled their hoods over as far as they would go, burying their noses in the collar of their coats. They must’ve been walking for at least an hour, and Vilkas couldn’t feel his hands or feet.

All the while, he tried to ignore the faint sound of pursuing footsteps, as he gripped his brother’s hand for dear life.

Jergen lead them through the night until they reached a copse of trees. From it, whispers echoed out along the wind, and began beckoning them forth. Vilkas remained frozen on the spot before passing into the treeline, Farkas following his lead. Their defiance didn’t last long, unfortunately, as Jergen pulled them along by their hoods. They would have to walk if they didn’t want to be drug through the snow.

Receiving them was a group of women dressed all in flowing black robes, their fingers pink with cold. Most of them were young enough that they might even still be considered girls, as few could have scarcely been much older than twenty. One, however, was more into her later years, middle aged perhaps, and was regarded as leader for her seniority. Witches, Vilkas thought, they had to be. Balgruuf’s story books described them perfectly. They led them to a small clearing where five, great, stone obelisks the height of a grown person were arranged in a circle. They were carved with odd symbols, and glowed softly as the women would mutter over them every so often.

Eventually, the oldest witch approached the brothers, gripping them by their chins and turning them this way and that. She hummed approvingly.

“You failed to mention they were twins,” She noted in a clear voice.

“I didn’t think it relevant,” Jergen replied from where he stood behind them, a hand on each of their shoulders.

The witch shrugged, “It might not be.”

“’Might’?” Jergen echoed, “And what if it is? I thought you knew what you were doing. You said you could fix this!”

“And you’ll hold your tongue if you want us to!” She snapped, “Now, bring them forth.”

Jergen’s grip on their shoulders tightened, as if he was only just now regretting his decision. He turned them around, and Vilkas found he couldn’t meet his gaze. It wasn’t until his hands began to tremble that he looked up to see his eyes beginning to glisten. Vilkas refused to think it was because he was actually remorseful. No, he told himself, his eyes were watering from the cold. Nothing more. It doesn’t matter how many times he apologizes, how many times he tries to convince them his actions were no fault of his own. He still did those things, still left them alone.

Farkas reached his hand out as if to comfort him, “Father?”

“I’m—“ His voice faltered, “I’m so sorry, my sons.”

_No, you’re not_ , Vilkas wanted to say, _You never are_.

He held his tongue.

And into the waiting grasp of the witches they went, pulled along by their arms. As soon as they stepped over the threshold of the circle, lines in the earth began to glow and melt away the frost. The grass kept green by the blanket of snow peaked forth, and grew to the point of sprouting seeds and even flowers. The air around them began to feel warm, much like spring, and Vilkas’ heavy overcoat began to feel uncomfortable. The witches each took a place at one of the obelisks.

The eldest stood at the one directly in front of them, and began speaking in a rough, hissing language, to which the other women repeated in unison. It made the hairs on Vilkas’ nape stand on end despite the now summer-warmth. Farkas beside him shuffled anxiously, no doubt affected similarly. Though they couldn’t see him, something began to happen to Jergen behind them. His shadow, distorted as it was by the glowing lay-lines, began to shift and twist. Inhuman noises ripped from his throat, but Vilkas found he couldn’t turn around even if he wanted to.

Rather suddenly, then, the lights flickered out like a sputtering flame, and they were left in the soft light of a pair of full moons.

More of those inhuman noises, barks and growls like those of a great hound, tore across the clearing. Vilkas whirled around to see, and was paralyzed from shock. It took Farkas tugging at his hand with all he had to get him to finally move away from the danger. There were three impossibly massive wolves before them, so large in fact, they bore an impressive bulk in order to support their own weight. Their eyes glimmered a haunting yellow, and Vilkas was so fiercely reminded of Jergen when he let his fury get the better of him that he wanted to cry.

One with a tawny coat surged at the witches, pinning their leader down and digging into her neck. One of them produced a small dagger from her sleeve, managing to get in a lucky hit before going down just like her fellows.

The other two wolves, meanwhile, were engaged in a vicious fight, snapping at weak spots and snarling like feral beasts. For all Vilkas knew at the time, however, they were. It wasn’t until one, ghostly white fur now russet with blood, clamped down on one of the other’s hind legs that the battle was decided. It went down with a pained howl, and that was all the white wolf needed to clamp its teeth into the other’s throat. It came up, muzzle stained crimson, with the other wolf limp under its paws. The two brothers watched in horror as that fallen wolf began to change, almost as a final effort, a last deed.

Bones twisted, deep brown fur fell away, and unblinking yellow eyes turned silver until Jergen lay on the ground before them.

The tawny wolf, mouth now licked clean, nuzzled at them with a whining pitch. The white wolf joined it, sniffing and prodding. Vilkas was at a loss for what to do, but leave it to Farkas to not only be uncannily aware of people’s moods, but also to be able to read that of an animal’s. Apparently, he believed their gestures to be that of concern.

“We’re alright, they didn’t hurt us,” He insisted.

The wolves seemed to nod (a startlingly human action), but gave a few last cursory sniffs as if to make sure. They weren’t quite sure how it happened, but just minutes later, they found themselves being carried back to Whiterun on the backs of these two gargantuan beasts. Vilkas clutched a soft winter coat as tight as his frozen hands could muster, glancing warily at Farkas who also clung around the shoulders of the other wolf.

Instead of being led directly into the city, however, they found themselves on the outskirts, taken to somewhere just outside the wall. They held themselves low, walking on silent paws as to not draw the attention of the guards patrolling the ramparts. Upon their approach, part of the stone structure fell away, revealing a silhouette lined in soft torchlight. When they got close enough to see their face in the darkness, Vilkas was startled to realize that he recognized him. It was Eorlund Grey-Mane, the smith up at the Skyforge.

“Kodlak?” He hissed out into the night.

The wolf carrying Vilkas let out a sound, as if to say, _I’m here_.

“Shor’s bones, get in here before someone sees you!”

The wolves complied, and soon the bite of winter faded away in lieu of warm torch-fire and shielding from the wind. The two brothers carefully settled themselves on the ground, boots soggy and dripping from their trek through the snow. The wolves shambled to somewhere through the tunnel, leaving them alone with Eorlund, who quickly shrugged off his own coat and put it over the both of them.

“You boys really gave us a scare,” He faltered then, “What of Jergen?”

“Dead,” Answered a voice from inside the tunnels.

Kodlak White-Mane stepped out into the light, shrugging on a fresh tunic. Following close behind was Skjor, who held in his arms a pair of heavy woven blankets. Vilkas and Farkas stared in stunned silence. Two of the Companions best? Gone after one of their own to save their hides? His brother recovered just a bit more quickly, stepping forth and muttered in thanks as he took the blankets, handing one over.

“Shame,” Eorlund murmured, “I had hoped he could’ve been spared, or at least brought to trial.”

“We should’ve seen this coming,” Skjor said, with a bit more bite in his tone. “We’ve known Jergen was going off the deep end for years now.”

Kodlak merely hummed in acknowledgment before kneeling in front of the brothers, “Are you two alright?”

“We already said they didn’t hurt us,” Vilkas snapped back, clutching the blanket tight.

He chuckled sadly, “Aye, but hurt isn’t always something you can see—or heal for that matter.”


End file.
